


The Shining Dome Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People all across America are losing their hair.  Dastardly THRUSH plot or an hair care company with too much time on its hands?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shining Dome Affair

 

 

CHAPTER ONE   "I didn't what?"

 

 

     "Macho!  It's a man's shampoo.  It'll take care of the worst scalp problems and leave your hair clean, shiny and manageable.  What's more, women love its clean, manly scent.  Try it now, use it now, samples will be in your mailbox soon or ask your local grocery store for your free sample today."

 

     Illya Kuryakin leaned forward and spun the dial of the radio until he found a radio station with a song he could tolerate.  Ever since the local jazz station had gone off the air, he's been 'between radio stations', not able to find one he wanted to listen to for more than a few minutes. The piece he found was a nice jazz instrumental by Miles Davis that gave him hope until it ended and a familiar jingle returned in its place.

 

     "Macho!  It's a man's shampoo..."

 

     Disgusted, he turned off the radio and leaned back. There was nowhere to hide from that commercial.  He'd found it on the TV; in nearly every magazine he'd looked at, even the technical journals, billboards, everywhere.  He'd even gotten his free sample in the mail.  One whiff had convinced him that he did not want it anywhere near his body, much less on his hair.

 

     Illya looked up as the passenger door opened and Napoleon Solo climbed inside.

 

     "Morning, Illya, how are you today?"

 

     "Wonderful," Illya muttered, then frowned as he caught a new scent wafting off his partner.  It smelled just like...  "Oh, Napoleon, you didn't!"

 

     "I didn't what?"  Solo was confused as he adjusted the crease in his trousers.

 

     "Use that free shampoo sample."

 

     "Why wouldn't I?  After all, it couldn't hurt, could it?  After all, it was free."

 

     "I shall never understand the American obsession when it comes to something free.  There is no such thing. Everything has its price."  Illya opened his window and then started the car.  "Besides, it smells like an ethyl alcohol gone bad."

 

     Napoleon simply grinned and adjusted his suit jacket, brushing a piece of hair from the shoulder as he did.  He was used to Illya's outbursts about various products that he used.  It had taken him nearly a month to get Kuryakin to the point of not complaining about Solo's aftershave.

 

     "I'm not terribly worried about what you think, Illya, it's whether or not the women like it."

 

     "Perhaps they will show good taste this time." 

 

 

But they did not.  The moment the pair walked into UNCLE HQ, women were sniffing and smiling, commenting on how much they loved, not liked, but loved Napoleon's newest cologne. Worst than that, but Illya was plagued by the smell all day, from working in the lab to instructing a class of new recruits to his workout in the gym.  Every man in the building must have received and used their free sample.  By the time Illya had retreated to his apartment and securely locked the door, he was sick to his stomach from the smell. It reminded him of days and nights spent in a Kiev lab, of the barrage of experiments, of when he reached a point in his life when he swore he'd never return to a lab.

 

     He collapsed back onto his sofa and yawned, trying to decide on a course of action for the evening.  He had no desire to go out and track down dinner, but he could always phone for something.  No, it was his entertainment that had him concerned.  Television and the radio held no interest for him, not since Macho had conquered the medium.  He laid back and thought about it for a while before sitting up and going in search of a phone book.  He opted for pizza and a night of listening to his albums and answering correspondence.

 

     It was just a little after midnight when he was awakened by a pounding on his door.  Immediately, every instinct Illya owned was up and working, even from a sound sleep.  He

reached beneath his pillow for his P-38 and rolled out of bed in one smooth motion.  Staying well to the side of the door, he released the safety on the gun and asked,

 

     "Yes, who is it?"

 

     "Illya?  It's me."

 

     It took a mere moment for Illya to opened the door and Solo rushed in overcoat and hat pulled down to hide his face.  Very unSolo like activities and Illya was immediately alerted, gun held at ready.  While it would be suicide for THRUSH to waltz in like this, you could never tell.  Solo must have realized his actions were unusual, for he said,

 

     "It's okay, Illya.  It's really me."

 

     "To that I have doubts until I see some proof of that."

 

     The face was lifted from the jacket to reveal Solo's face and Illya let the gun slide back in his hand.  "What is with the cloak and dagger routine."  Illya walked back to the bed and retrieved his robe.

 

     "Something terrible has happened."  The coat was discarded, but Solo kept the hat on, pulled low and concealing.

 

     "Besides me being waken from a sound sleep, you mean?" Illya ran a hand through his hair and saw a look of sorrow on his partner's face.  "Napoleon, what has happened?"

 

     Slowly, Solo reached up and removed his hat and Illya's mouth dropped open.

 

     Napoleon Solo was bald.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO   "Ye of little faith,"

 

 

     "I don't believe this," Illya muttered as he stared at Solo.  "When did it happen?"

 

     Napoleon collapsed unhappily in a chair and shrugged his shoulders.  "I noticed it a little this morning.  By this afternoon, it was nearly impossible not to notice something," he stopped and sighed.  "However, it was after my shower tonight that things really started to...started to..."  Napoleon trailed off.

 

     "Have you used anything different lately?"

 

     "Just that shampoo sample I got in the mail."  Solo sat up suddenly.  "Do you think...?"

 

     "It could be.  Do you have any left?"

 

     "Unfortunately not.  Even the bottle is gone." Napoleon slumped back down, the fight out of him.

 

     "Well,” Illya said, looking around.  "I should still have mine here...somewhere."

 

     Solo cast a baleful eye at the studio and reached up to rub his head.  "I guess I should get use to this. We'll never find anything in this squalor.  In fact, I have a feeling I know where the ten lost tribes of Israel ended up."

 

     "Ye of little faith,” Illya chuckled as he pulled on his robe and rubbed his eyes.  He sat and thought for a moment.  It had been a couple of days ago.  He'd picked up the mail and stuffed it into the grocery bag he was carrying.  He put the bag on the floor by the closet until he remembered the ice cream he bought and stuffed the whole lot into the freezer.  With that, he stood and walked to the refrigerator.  Sure enough, the sack was still there, along with a handful of frozen mail.

 

     "I'm not even going to ask," Napoleon said, shaking his head.

 

     "It's better not to.  Would you like some coffee?  I have a feeling I'm not going to get much more sleep tonight."  Illya doubtfully shook the shampoo sample.  "Of course, if this stuff is sensitive to cold, we could be over before we begin.  I wonder if this bottle is microwaveable."

 

     Napoleon joined him in the kitchen and reached out for the object.  He held it up to the light and peered through it.  "Doesn't have a ingredients listing, did you notice?"

 

     "Not surprising.  Most samples don't."  Illya went about filling the coffee pot with water and getting the grounds ready to use.  "There was this one shampoo out a couple of years ago that use sheep placenta as an ingredient.  It was very popular until people found out about that.  It went off the market soon after."

 

     "I shouldn't imagine.  What will manufacturers think of next?"

 

     "Beats me.  All the good ideas have already been used." Illya retrieved the sample from him.  "If you will watch the coffee.  I'm going to go take a shower."

 

     "Illya, not with that.  Don't be an idiot."  Solo's tone was harsh and firm, a superior's voice.

 

     "I don’t plan to use it, Napoleon, but it might help to thaw it out a bit."  Illya was pleasantly touched by Solo's concern.

 

     By the time he finished, the shampoo was warmed through and the coffee ready.  He tossed the small brown bottle to Solo and rubbed his head briskly with a towel.

 

     "Here you go.  Ready to go and so am I.  Or I will be after a cup of coffee."

 

     "Where?"

 

     "The lab.  I don't have enough equipment around here to run a reliable test on that."  He went to the closet and pulled out a black turtleneck.  "You can stay here if you want."

 

     "Thanks, but I think I better come."

 

     "Alright, but I wash my hands of you.  Simpson is going to go crazy when he sees you, especially after how you went on about his bald spot."

 

     "Yes, but I can also reprimand him and get him shipped to our North Pole base if necessary and he knows it. Besides," Napoleon said, pulling on his jacket.  "I've got to face this sooner or later.  At least, it'll be late and not as many people will be there."

 

 

CHAPTER THREE  "It makes my girlfriend crazy...sir."

 

     "Not many people, huh?"  Illya looked around the people who milled about in the corridors of UNCLE HQ.  He had to admit it was rather unusual to see this many people here at 3 a.m., but considering their condition, he could understand it.

 

     It wasn't just Solo who had been affected, but just about every man they met.  Illya's shaggy hair had always been the butt of more than one joke around the office, but now those same men were looking longingly at the long blond hair and sighing.  Illya was beginning to feel vindicated, but that didn't help the problem.

 

     He pushed his glasses up onto his head and focused the microscope, then stared down at the hair on the slide.  It was coated with something, something that he couldn't identify.  He sat back, frowned and took another look. Nothing in the shampoo sample had suggested anything particularly peculiar to shampoos in general.  Of course, the complete breakdown wasn't finished yet and wouldn't be for a few more hours.

 

     "Hey, Illya, I got bad news for you."  The Russian sat up and looked over at the speaker.  In his years with UNCLE, Terry Simpson had gained a reputation of being a fairly competent lab technician, always ready to laugh and a hard worker, but he also loved to shovel dirt.  If there was a rumor going around, chances are Simpson had either started or refined it.  Oh, Illya knew there were always that type in any line of business, in any country, the people who loved to speculate and fan the fire.  Of course, he'd been the root of many of Simpson's rumors, but Illya chalked that up to the professional jealousy.  After all, they'd graduated together and here Simpson was buried in the labs, away from the action while Illya was second only to Solo.

 

     Of course, now he was in the same situation as Solo and the others. His salt-and-pepper hair had fallen out, augmented by his use of Macho Shampoo and the male baldness syndrome.

 

     "Yes, Mr. Mifflin, what do you have for me?"  Illya watched the man's eyes flared at his formality and Mifflin trudged forward a younger agent, one who looked for the world as though he wanted to floor to open and swallow him. Yet, unlike most of the other men in the room, he had hair.

 

     "Him.  Tell him," Mifflin ordered.

 

     "It's alright," Illya said calmly, contrasting the anger he felt towards the lab technician.  "What's wrong?"

 

     "I used that shampoo," came the soft murmur.  "Is my hair going to fall out too?"  There was fear in the question.

 

     "I don't know.  When did you use it?"  Illya pulled off his glasses and tucked them away.

 

     "Last two days, ever since the samples arrived."

 

     "Samples?"

 

     "Yeah, I've used about three bottles' worth.  It makes my girlfriend crazy...sir."

 

     "You must be one of the lucky immune.  May I?"  Illya nodded to the agent's hair.

 

     "Sure, anything to help."  He flinched as Illya plucked a hair from his head and returned to the microscope.  Unlike the other piece, this one was clean and less striated.

 

     "How peculiar," Illya muttered, glancing up as Solo approached.  "How are you doing?"

 

     "It's not quite so bad when you've got company."  Solo had managed to recapture most of his savoir-faire.  "Are you getting anything over here."

 

     "The usual, more questions than answers.  Like, why does it only affect some men?"  Illya indicated the younger agent, who had practically snapped to attention at Solo's approach.  "He used the shampoo and nothing happened.  You use it once and."  Illya made a fluttering motion with his fingers.

 

     "Thank you, Mr. Kuryakin, for that graphic display," Solo said dryly.  He was spared additional comment by the ringing of the phone.  He picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, and mumbled something into it.

 

     Illya was preparing to go back to the microscope as Solo dropped the receiver down and shook his head.

 

     "That was Mr. Waverly.  The news is not good."

 

     "You don't mean..."

 

     "Uh huh, than a cue ball."  Napoleon sat heavily in a chair and shook his head.  "And he wants us to find an answer.  From what I understand, over half the state is in the same mess."

 

     "That doesn't make sense."  Illya came to stand beside Solo.  "If it was THRUSH, why hit everyone else?"

 

     "Why not?" Mifflin asked sarcastically.  "Since when have they cared about who they step on?"  He walked away without further comment.

 

     "He has a point, Smart Russian."

 

     "And it must be difficult to find a hat that fits it. Have any of the other offices been contacted?  It could be just isolated.  That might make finding the culprit a bit easy."

 

     The younger UNCLE agent had been quietly taking this all in and softly cleared his throat.

 

     "Do you have anything to add, Mr. Corey," Kuryakin asked quietly to avoid spooking the man any more.

 

     "It's probably stupid, but have we tried to find the manufacturer?"

 

     "In the process thereof.  And never worry about asking a question.  The only stupid questions are the ones never asked.  Any competent scientist will tell you that.  You can go."

 

     "Yes, sir."  Corey thankfully hurried from the lab.

 

     "Probably the longest and the most intimately he's ever been involved in a case.  Wouldn't it be nice to be young and innocent again?" Napoleon grinned at Illya's frown.

 

     "Even when I was young, I was not innocent."

 

     "Careful, my friend, that's how rumors start."  Solo looked meaningfully at the approaching Mifflin.  "Do you have something for us?"

 

     "The lab tests are back.  More good news."

 

     "Negative?" Illya began flipping through sheets of printouts.  "I don't believe this.  The shampoo has to be the cause.  It's the only common agent."

 

     Solo patted Kuryakin's shoulder and glanced over at Mifflin.  "Have any of the other offices been contacted?"

 

     "No reports of anything out of the ordinary.  It's just here."

 

    “Here where?”

 

     “Here, here.”

 

     "New York, New York.  Well, I'm going to go give Mr. Waverly a full report.  Anyone care to come to the slaughter?"

 

     "You're on your own, Great White Hunter."  Illya dug his wristwatch out of his pocket.  "It's nearly 8.  I'm going to go do some mousing and see if I can turn up anything."  He caught the arm of a passing agent.  "Do you have that list of distribution points for the shampoo?"

 

     The man patted his jacket, tried his pants' pockets, and then returned to his coat.  Finally, he pulled a sheet of paper from an inner pocket and held it up for inspection.

 

     Illya took it without comment and ticked off the three names mentally before returning handing it back.  "Thank you, Mr. Simon."

 

     Simon nodded and walked away, a hand traveling up to pat his bald head as if just checking to make sure nothing was there.

 

     "When did we get him?"

 

     "Came in from Houston."  Napoleon looked after the man. He was about to add something when he suddenly remembered the presence of Mifflin.  "I'd better get upstairs."

 

     "Good luck," Illya murmured, secretly delighted that he only had to face irate shipping masters, uncooperative foremen and sore feet.

 

     "You too."  It was obvious that Solo was sincere.

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR   "Unfortunately, I can think of nothing that doesn't border on the obscene."

 

 

     Illya Kuryakin rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. He was disappointed with his lack of progress.  The two warehouses he'd already visited had been a complete waste of time.  The head foreman of the first one didn't know where the samples had come from, didn't have any bill of lading and didn't seem to care that nearly three quarters of the men in New York were bald.  It was his opinion that anyone sissy enough to use shampoo deserved what he got.

 

     The second man, while a bit more cooperated and just as bald as Kuryakin's partner, wasn't of any real help.  The crates had come in on an unmarked local shipping line, and then the driver had unloaded during lunch break and taken off without stopping to get a signature.  It was irregular, but not terribly suspicious, especially with the high number of other shipments.

 

     Illya leaned against a wall and pulled his notebook out of an inner jacket pocket.  The last name was way across town and it was getting late. He glanced at his watch, debating whether or not to try and make it.  Of course, there wasn't any real reason why he had to talk to anyone. With that thought in mind, he hailed a cab.

 

     Julex Warehouse stood in a bad part of the city, but Kuryakin wasn't concerned.  Inwardly, he wouldn't have minded being slightly accosted.  It would give him a chance to work off the frustration he felt growing in the pit of his stomach and the tension in the back of his neck.  He was certain now that affliction was limited to the New York area, not that that was of any real tangible help.  It did, however, practically rule THRUSH out.  They would hardly use New York City as a test market, not with all the little villages, towns, and hovels that would be much more secluded.  Of course, with THRUSH ruled out, Illya was perplexed.  Who else could it be?

 

     Illya pulled out his communicator and tugged up the antennae.  "Open Channel D.  Napoleon, are you there?"

 

     "Right here, Mr. K.  What's the good word?"

 

     "Unfortunately, I can think of nothing that doesn't border on the obscene."

 

     "That good, huh?  Didn't find anything at the warehouses?"  Illya could hear the stress in Solo's voice even over the distortion of the communicator.

 

     "Am at the last one right now.  I think it's Julex." He paused to study the sign though the twilight.  "Yea, Julex.  If we find nothing here, then it's back to Square One."

 

     "Then we'll have to hope that the third time's the charm.  Let me know if you get anything."

 

     "Right.  Kuryakin out."

 

 

 

     He walked to the gates of the warehouse and looked through the mesh fence to the buildings beyond.  He stood there for a moment, waiting to see if a guard dog or two would respond.  It appeared safe, so Illya glanced around for any observer before easily scaling the fence.  He dropped to the ground and scurried into the welcoming haven of the shadows.

 

     Illya paused to catch his bearings and then headed for what looked like the office.  Kneeling beside the door, he jimmied it in a matter of seconds.  No wonder the crime rate in the city was so high; most locks were just a joke. Before cracking the door open, he checked for any telltale wires that could lead to an alarm system.

 

     Inside, he almost immediately spotted the office, a small building within the building, a large 'No Admittance' sign decorating the wall beside the door.  Illya looked at the sign for a moment, smiling slightly as he spotted a tripwire for the alarm.  He knelt beside it, tracing its path easily with his fingers until he reached a junction box.  Satisfied that severing the wire wouldn't set anything off, he dug a jack knife out of a pocket and cut through it.

 

     That accomplished, he set about picking the office door's lock.  This one was slightly harder, but it gave way eventually beneath Kuryakin's skilled fingers.  He pushed the door open and peered inside, letting his eyes adjust to the additional lack of light within the room.  It would be hard to read with the penlight he carried, but he couldn't risk turning any additional lights on and alerting a possible security guard.

 

     Cautiously, he crept into the room, keeping low and out of sight, just in case.  It took several long tense moments for him to locate the binder he wanted, that of 'shipments received'.  Holding the penlight in his mouth, he opened to the back of the book, flipping through the pages; eyes squinted to make out the faint printing.

 

     When he had gone back through a month's worth of invoices, he started forward, studying each sheet.  Nothing suspicious leapt out him, no strange shipment, and no unlabelled or unmarked bills of lading.  He closed the book with more force than he intended, disgusted with his lack of progress.

 

     There was nothing to do now, but head for home and come back in the morning.  Illya replaced the binder to its spot in the bookcase and dug out his communicator again.  He leaned back against the wall and thumbed the switch up.

 

     "Open Channel D please."

 

     "Illya," came Solo's voice immediately.  "Tell me you found something."

 

     "Very well, I found something, but I'm also lying." Something moved in the dark outside the door and Illya fell silent, holding the communicator beneath his jacket while he studied the shadows.  Only when he was certain there was nothing there did he retrieve the slender instrument.

 

     "Illya?  Illya?"  Solo's voice was tinged with worry.

 

     "Here, Napoleon.  I thought I saw something, but I guess it was just a rat."

 

     "Don't take any chances.  Clear out while you've got the chance."

 

     "Way ahead of you, my friend.  I'll talk to you when I get back in.  Kuryakin out."

 

     Still wary, Illya exited from the room, pulling the door firmly, but quietly shut behind him, and after casting a glance left and right, he walked from the office to his point of entry.  With any luck, they'd never even know he was in.  Illya never finished the thought as a sharp slap of pain went across the back of his head and he fell forward.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE  "Go ahead and stare!"

 

     Gradually, Illya once again, became aware of his surroundings.  His head hurt, but the feeling was nothing new.  He'd long since lost track of the times he'd been hit over the head, just as he'd given up wondering which one would be the fatal blow.  He just wouldn't wake up that time.

 

     Unfortunately, he was waking up now and his temples throbbed with each beat his heart took.  Still pretending unconsciousness, he carefully tried each of his limbs, but his arms and legs were firmly tied.  So much for that avenue of escape, he decided, and opened his eyes slowly.

 

     It took a minute for his fogged-in brain to ascertain that he was tied down in something that strongly resembled a barber's chair.  He craned his head around to get a better view of the immediate area, wincing as a stab of pain warned him better.

 

     Besides the chair, there were several other barber shop items spread out on the counters around him, scissors, razors, various jars and containers, among which Illya noticed a brown-glass bottle of Macho shampoo.

 

     "Oh, you're finally awake," came a voice behind him. Illya waited until the speaker moved into his line of view. The man gave the Russian the immediate impression of being square, as tall as he was wide.  Even more than that, the man was totally hairless.  No hair, no eyebrows, nothing.

 

     "That's right, go ahead and stare!  Everyone else does!"  The man was obviously ranting, but Illya was hardly in a position to do much about it.  Instead, he returned the man's glare with calm blue eyes.

 

     "Who are you?"

 

     "Probably the greatest chemical barber known to man." He bowed deeply to the Russian, who was certain he'd lose his balance and go over.  Yet, he didn't and the movement was surprisingly liquid.  "You may call me," he paused for effect, "Bob."

 

     "Bob?  Bob what?"

 

     "Just Bob.  Aren't all barbers called Bob?"  He came closer to Illya and reached out to finger the agent's blond hair.  "But with this mop, I guess you wouldn't know about that, would you?"  The hand retreated back into a pant's pocket.

 

     Illya shook his hair back into place, ignoring the last barbed comment.  He got enough of that from Solo.  "So, Bob, I take it that you are the creator of Macho Shampoo."

 

     "Very, very good, Mr. Hair."

 

     "The name is Kuryakin."

 

     "Fine, Hair Kuryakin," Bob stopped as he realized what he said, then choked on his laughter.

 

     Illya made a face and leaned back further into the chair, working against the ropes that held his hands firmly to the arms of the chair.

 

     "Oh, I made a funny, didn't I?"  At Kuryakin's silence, Bob spun back upon him.  "Well, laugh."  Nothing.  Bob grabbed up a pair of scissor and held the tip close to one of Illya’s eyes, the voice tight with anger, "I said, laugh."

 

     Somewhere, Illya managed to find a couple of dry chuckles, but they were enough to satisfy Bob.  The scissors went back into a pocket and Illya's smile ran away from his face.  Unfortunately, however crazy the man was, he knew how to tie a tight knot.  The ropes held firm.  Worse, it would be hours before anyone would even notice his absence.  Until then, he was at this maniac's mercy.

 

     "So, Bob, tell me, what exactly were you trying to accomplish with your shampoo?"

 

     In response, Bob held up a paper.  The headlines read, "New York Goes Bald!" and it featured a snap of the mayor in all his hairless glory.  "My own little bit of immortality."

 

     "Immorality is more like it.  Why do you want all men to be bald?"  Illya paused, studying the squat figure.  "To be just like you?"

 

     "Is that such a crime, to be like everyone else?"

 

     "It is when you pass off a shampoo like Macho, on the innocent public.  What give you the right to destroy lives like that?"

 

     Bob tore open his shirt, revealing pink hairless skin. "This does?  Do you know what it's like to have no hair - at all?  Do you know what it's like to have women laugh at you? Call you a hairless wonder?  Suggest you check into a freak side show?"  He grabbed Illya's chin, wrenching his face up to glare into the clouded blue eyes.  Then Bob frowned, his hand caressing Illya's lower face.  He backed away and screamed.

 

     Involuntarily, Illya jumped at the sound, puzzled by the man's reaction.  It was then that he realized it had been nearly two days since he'd shaved and while it wouldn't be apparent for several more hours, the stubble was still there.

 

     "How dare you break into my warehouse and invade my privacy?  You and your...hair?"  Bob ran to the counter, his hands scattering various items, knocking them to the ground in his haste to retrieve the bottle of Macho.  "Well, we'll soon fix that, Mr. Kuryakin."

 

     "It doesn't work on me," Illya said, softly, as if afraid of being heard.

 

     "It'll work, if I have to pull each strand of hair out myself and cauterize your scalp."

 

     Illya swallowed audibly, then braced himself as he watched Bob pick up a bucket of water.  With a chuckle, he poured it over Illya’s head and the Russian gasped.  The water was cold, but it helped to clear his mind.

 

     "It's show time, folks."  Bob emptied the entire contents of the bottle on Illya's head and started to lather.  Beneath the bubbles and foam, Illya struggled, not so much to escape the inevitable shampoo, but to avoid getting the soap in his eyes, nose and mouth.  It was everywhere else, God knows, running down his neck, dripping onto his coat and pants.

 

     Then, deep inside him, something clicked.  Soap was slick, a wonderful lubricant.  With a deliberate shake of his head, he sent the foam flying, all over himself and his captor.

 

     It didn't seem to bother Bob at all. He just stood back and grinned.  "Well, we'll just let that set for a minute or two to get the full benefit."

 

     That suited Illya just fine.  He rolled his shoulders forward, ignoring the protesting pop from the joints. They're never really been the same since he dislocated them during the war at Nuevo Cordo.  Still, it accomplished his task.  His hands were dripping with water and shampoo.  He twisted and his wrists slipped in the ropes.

 

     To avoid alerting Bob of his intentions, Illya continued to shake his head, coughing and spit at the soap running down his face.  It would just be a few seconds more. Another tug and his hands were nearly free.

 

     Suddenly, he was hit with another bucketful of water and he gasped at the impact.  With an involuntary jerk, his hands were free, but Bob didn't seem to notice.  He had something else in his hands now.  Illya recognized the bottle as a currently popular hair conditioner.  He never

used the stuff himself, considering the problems he had with his hair with just shampoo.

 

     "And now our secret ingredient," Bob squeezed a generous amount into his hand.  "You see, Hair Kuryakin, the shampoo alone doesn't do it.  It's harmless until you mix it with conditioner.  Those dumb chemists will never figure that out.  They'll just keep trying to figure out what's wrong with the shampoo."  Bob giggled.  In fact, he was still giggling when Illya's fist came up to slam into his mouth.

 

     The man was knocked backward, against the counter. Immediately, Illya started to work on the ropes that held his legs firm, doing his best to ignore the burning in his eyes from the half-rinsed shampoo.

 

     He freed one leg and looked up to see Bob rushing him, scissors in one hand, a glob of conditioner in the other. Illya shook his head sadly at the sight and then leaned back in the chair.  At the right moment, he brought his leg up, planting his foot square into the man's chest.  With the chair as a brace, he kicked.  Bob went back into the counter with a rewarding thump, the wind knocked from him.  That was enough time to allow Illya to free his other foot.

 

     Once out of the chair, it was obvious that situation had reversed itself.  It would have made a lesser man pause, but it didn't stop Bob.  He grabbed a bottle of hair tonic and smashed the bottom against the counter.  Welding the jagged glass at Kuryakin, he approached again.

 

     Reflexively, Illya's hand went into his coat, reaching for his gun.  Poor old Bob hadn't even disarmed him.  He just kept getting closer and closer, waving that bottle as if it were a serious threat.

 

     .  Swiftly, with practiced ease, Illya pulled out the clip of regular bullets from the P-38 and exchanged them with a clip of mercy bullets.  Then he backed away more.  At this distance, even a mercy bullet could be fatal.   Illya backed away, putting a little space between them and Bob took this as fear.  He grinned and made a jab with the bottle

 

     Suddenly, there was a wall behind him and he could retreat no further.  Bob wasn't letting up either.  Waving arms and moving legs made them ineffective target.  With a sigh, Illya aimed for the man's chest and pulled the trigger.

 

     Bob managed two more steps before dropping to his knees.  His plight obviously, tears started to come. "I just wanted to fit in," he mumbled before pitching forward into unconsciousness.

 

     "That's all anybody wants, Bob," Illya said, holstering the gun.  He looked around for a minute before locating another bucket of water.  Just what his burning eyes wanted, he took a breath and plunged his head into the water.

 

     A strange noise alerted him and he pulled his head out to locate it; approaching police sirens.  He ran his hands over his hair to squeeze out the excessive water and then shook his head, sending a spray of water everywhere.  With one last look at Bob, Illya headed for the door.

 

 

EPOLOGUE

 

     Napoleon Solo stuck his head around the doorframe and grinned at his partner.

 

     "So, how's Mr. Incognito?"  He walked in and sat down on a paper-ladened chair.  "What did the doctor say?"

 

     From behind the dark glasses, Illya regarded Solo seriously.  "He said no permanent damage.  It'll just take some time for the color to fade."  The shampoo had irritated Illya's eyes into a brilliant, protesting shade of red.  The result made him look like he was just getting off a three- week drinking jag.  He resisted the urge to rub them and instead returned to the report he'd been working on.

 

     Solo showed no indication of moving, running his hand over the stubble of hair that covered his head, as if to smooth the growth into place.  Thankfully, the effects of the shampoo had been temporary, although Illya wasn't convinced that had been Bob's intent.  There was no way they could ask him, though, as Bob had been carted away to Bellevue and given a nice quiet padded cell.

 

     "Itches," Solo explained to a disinterested partner.

 

     "At least there won't be any surprises later on," Illya replied, attention still on his report.

 

     "What do you mean?"  Solo was openly puzzled.

 

     "With that receding hairline, you're facing the inevitable you know."  Illya fought to keep a smile from his lips at Solo's stricken face.  The man stood and took an involuntary step towards the door, obviously heading for the men's room and the mirror there.

 

     Then, he paused and looked back at Kuryakin.

 

     "Bald?  You really think so?"

 

     "You know what they say, 'Hair today, gone tomorrow.'" Illya grinned at Solo's strickened look, and then added.  "You wouldn't hit a guy with glasses on, would you?"  He barely avoided Solo's fist.

 


End file.
